Game On
by Lala Kate
Summary: Two single parents find love just as they're facing middle age.
1. Chapter 1

She's there every Friday night, perched on the same bleacher in the same aisle, wrapped up in her blue and white blanket even though it's rather warm for an October evening. He noticed her the first game of the season-how could he not?, what with that dark hair that just teases her shoulders, a strand of which she continually tucks behind one ear, and full lips that are always tinted either a warm burgundy or a deep red. She's stunning, there's no question, and he'd hardly be a man, much less a single man if he didn't notice her.

But she's a loner in a sea of faces, just like he is. And that's what draws him to her most.

He really ought to say hello tonight. It wouldn't take much effort on his part, a mere sliding down and over a few rows, a polite query as to if she'd like a cup of coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. But he holds back, cursing himself for his cowardice as she pulls the blanket even tighter around her petite frame. She's cold. Perhaps his moving next to her would offer an extra modicum of body heat that would help her warm up.

 _Just do it, you dolt._

He inhales sharply and decides to make his move, laughing at himself as his knee protests a bit too loudly for his liking, feeling more like his teenage son with his first crush than a fifty-one year old widower who hasn't been on a date in longer than he can remember. There are similarities, he supposes, and he promises not to laugh at Roland's unrequited crush on that junior cheerleader again as his own face heats up and his palms begin to sweat.

Here goes nothing.

"May I join you?"

She looks up at him, her eyes such a rich shade of brown they arrest him on the spot.

"No one's stopping you," she returns, scooting over a fraction, allowing the leftover warmth of her own body heat clinging stubbornly to the bench to tease him through his jeans. He's careful not to sit too close, yet close enough to get a whiff of her perfume, something rich and spicy he suspects hints at her personality.

"My son is number twenty-nine," he says, pointing towards the sidelines. "He's a freshman, and new to the school, so he's not getting much play time just yet."

"Does that bother you?" she questions, a hint of challenge peppering her voice.

"Not at all," he returns with a shrug. "Players have to earn their stripes, and Roland is still young and rather inexperienced. But he's making friends, enjoys being a part of a team and already adores his coach. That's what's most important, in my opinion."

She smiles at that.

"Coach Nolan is young and somewhat inexperienced himself," she states. "But we've seen a major improvement in team morale and performance since he was hired two years ago. The boys like and respect him, and he's an excellent history teacher."

"Sounds like he's the right man for the job, then," he says, distracted by the manner in which she tugs that stubborn strand behind her ear again. It's streaked with gray, he realizes, and something primal hits him right in the groin, giving him a partial boner rather embarrassing for a man his age. He crosses his legs, hoping she doesn't notice even though he suspects that she does.

Yep. She's smirking at him in a way that makes him want to simultaneously crawl under the bleachers and kiss her senseless. Shit.

One of their boys makes a run down the field, gaining over fifty yards and energizing the crowd. They clap, and he breathes in the cool air, thankful for a moment to settle his middle-aged hormones and get his lower anatomy back in line.

"I'm Robin," he volunteers after the hubbub dies down. "Robin Locksley."

"Regina Mills," she answers, accepting his outstretched hand from beneath her blanket. "You're not from Storybrooke, are you?"

"No," he confesses. "My kids and I just moved here over the summer."

"New job?"

"New everything."

She raises an eyebrow, and he takes a deep breath.

"My wife died four years ago," he states, amazed at how he can now speak those words without his voice and demeanor shattering. "Ovarian cancer."

"I'm sorry," she says, looking down at her blanket for returning her gaze to him.

"Thank you," he returns. "We're moving on with life, day by day, week by week. But it's been hard on the children and me, and I finally decided it was time for a fresh start for all of us-somewhere new."

"A second chance?"

"We all deserve one, don't you think? Especially in a place…"

He pauses, watching his baby girl clap her hands with her friends on the sidelines in front of the cheerleaders. Her braids bob up and down, and she tosses her head back and laughs, cinching his heart in a manner that lets him know they did the right thing by moving.

"Especially in a place where everything doesn't remind you of what you've lost," she cuts in, her words hitting home with precision.

"Precisely," he says, looking at her with interest. "You've lost someone, too?"

"My fiance," she replies, looking out on the field as their team breaks out of the huddle. "But that was over twenty years ago."

They're interrupted by a touchdown, and they both stand and cheer along with the crowd. She's closer to him when they sit back down, and he smiles, allowing himself to hope that it was a deliberate move on her part.

"Is that what brought you here?" he asks. "To Storybrooke?"

She chuckles.

"I grew up here," she states. "But losing Daniel is what brought me back home."

"You wanted to be near your family?" he muses.

"My dad," she returns. "My mother and I had a somewhat contentious relationship, you might say."

"Has she passed on?" he asks, noting her use of the word _had_.

"Three years ago," Regina says.

"I'm sorry."

She shrugs.

"It's okay. I still have my dad, even if he can't get out much these days."

"I lost my dad when I was in college," he offers, applauding after the kicker makes the extra point. "My mum passed right after Abby was born, so it's just been me and the kids for a while."

"Abby's your daughter?" she asks, and he smiles, the way he always does when he thinks of his little girl.

"Yeah," he returns. "She's standing down there by the cheerleaders-the one with the messy brown braids and denim jacket." She's his sunshine, there's no question, this second child they'd nearly given up trying to conceive.

"She's adorable," Regina says with a smile.

"She's ten going on sixteen and looks just like her mum," he returns, thinking of his Marian, thankful he can do so now without searing pain. "Both of my kids do, actually. You wouldn't know they were mine to look at them."

She smiles and leans slightly in his direction.

"My son doesn't look like me at all. Then again, he's adopted."

He chuckles, edging a bit closer to her. God, she smells nice.

"Is he on the team?" he asks, scoping the field as the offence takes a break and the defense takes over.

"No," she responds. "He's in the band. First chair trumpet."

The pride in her tone is unmistakable.

"Abby can't wait to go to middle school so she can join the band," he says. "She's determined to play the flute, even though I still have my old saxophone and wouldn't have to pay for a new instrument if she went with that."

Her laugh is soft and decadent.

"Isn't that always the way it is? Henry wouldn't touch my clarinet with a ten-foot pole. It was trumpet or nothing for him."

He nods.

"If he's first chair, he must be quite good."

Her smile is broad, her teeth perfection.

"I think he's brilliant, but then again, I'm his mom." She pauses to give him an actual once-over. "What do you do for a living, Robin Locksley?"

He rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm a network engineer," he states. "Currently in charge of electronic medical records across the state of Maine."

Her eyes widen at this.

"Not that that's important, or anything."

He shrugs.

"Somedays it feels like more trouble than it's worth," he admits. "But I do get to work from home for the most part, which has been a lifesaver for me as a single dad."

She nods and licks those lips of hers, prompting his nether regions to take notice yet again.

"What about you?" he asks. She grins and gives him the side-eye.

"I'm the mayor," she replies. "Of Storybrooke."

Shit.

"Not that that's important, or anything," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck again, his ears heating up at least ten degrees. "Well, I really fucked that up, didn't I?"

Her devilish grin is delicious.

"You're new. I'll give you a pass this time."

Her face is close now, so close he wants to reach out and caress that marble skin of hers, to lose his fingers in that sumptuous black hair, to press his lips against her temple and breathe all of her in.

"Does that mean I can make a pass at you?" he asks. "We are at a football game, after all."

Her eyes narrow as she licks her lips again.

"That depends."

"On?"

"On whether or not you're prone to fumbling."

His entire face gets hot in a flash.

"I prefer complete passes to fumbling my own balls," he counters, figuring in for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'll bet you do," she hums, her brow creasing. "So you're a player?"

"Not in the slightest," he returns, all bluster deserting him just when he needs it most. "In fact, I'm rustier than I care to admit, especially to a beautiful woman like you."

She's quiet for a second.

"Been a while?" she asks, her pert nose just daring him to reach out and touch it. Somehow, he restrains himself.

"Four years," he admits. "I haven't wanted to be with anyone-to go out with anyone since my Marian died." He clears his throat, swallowing hard. "Until now, that is. So this-flirting-is sort of new to me-really new for me, actually."

She stares at him openly, quirking her brow just so.

"You don't mince words, do you?"

He laughs.

"I suppose I prefer the bold and audacious approach. That is, if it's working. If not, I'm game to try something else."

"Worried I might toss a flag on your play?" she questions, the tease in her voice tickling his insides and squelching some of his concerns.

"I'd have to question the referee," he counters. "I mean, to understand the reasoning behind the flag."

"So you're thorough?" she asks, nearly making him choke on his own saliva.

"Very much so," he states. "At least I strive to be."

"And you're hoping for a touchdown on the first play?"

That hint of challenge is back now, tinged with interest and a wariness that's only natural.

"No," he confesses. "I think I'm just as much of a tease as you are." She looks down and blushes, a sight so adorable it hits him squarely in the gut. "But dinner might be nice"

She blinks a few times, looking back up at him with intensity.

"Do you like Italian?"

"My favorite," he replies. "Along with Mexican, that is."

"My enchiladas are passable," she says. "But I make a mean lasagna."

He licks his own lips, his stomach fluttering at the turn of their conversation.

"I'll bet your enchiladas are more than passable," he grins.

"God, you're a flirt."

"Only when it comes to food and sex."

She tries to squelch her chuckle, making it all the more attractive.

"Keep your chips out of my salsa, Locksley-for now, anyway."

He grins, and she joins him, their fingers rubbing against each other, their pinkies finally linking together.

"You're beautiful, you know."

The vulnerability he'd noticed from a distance steals back over her in a flash.

"I'm getting old."

"Aren't we all?"

He pauses to applaud the team as the halftime buzzer sounds and the game comes to a temporary halt.

"I'll be fifty-two in a few weeks," he confesses, wondering once again where time has gone.

"So I know I'm older than you are."

Her gaze is somewhat sheepish.

"I turned fifty. In July. I'm not exactly a spring chicken."

"You're gorgeous," he states. "And I hope you celebrated turning fifty. That's quite a milestone."

"To middle age," she sighs before scrunching her nose in distaste. "And I had to celebrate, I didn't have a choice. My family threw me a surprise party."

Her expression is absolutely adorable.

"I take it you didn't enjoy it that much."

She sighs and presses her lips together.

"Too many people, flat beer and a lackluster band. Not exactly my idea of a good time."

He grins, wishing he could have been there to make it better for her.

"I'm more of a small group kind of person," he says. "Big crowds exhaust me after a while."

"Same here," she states. "Which is why I'm still having a difficult time forgiving my cousin for setting the whole thing up in the first place." She sighs and leans a little more in his direction. "She's dating Coach Nolan, just so you know."

"Who?"

"My cousin Mary Margaret. That's her, the woman sitting on the bleacher closest to the team with all the signs and noisemakers," Regina continues, shaking her head. He spies the young woman in question, her pixie-hair cut streaked with the team colors, holding a blue pom-pom in one hand and a cowbell in the other.

"She's enthusiastic, it would seem," Robin muses, earning himself a look he could eat.

"That's one way of putting it," Regina mutters.

He pauses, breathing in steadily before taking the final plunge into what could be frigid waters.

"And what about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

He nearly jumps out of his skin when she clears her throat.

"That depends."

"On?" he questions, swallowing down his nerves.

"On whether or not you like my lasagna."

He smiles in relief as the band begins moving into position on the sidelines.

"I've no doubt that I'll like your lasagna. In fact, I'm quite certain I'll want seconds, possibly even thirds."

"Sticking with bold and audacious, I see," she replies with a grin.

"That approach would seem to be working," he returns. "So why fix what's not broken?"

They sit in silence a few seconds, their pinkies linking once more, and he realizes how natural this feels, sitting here with her like this, watching football, talking about their families, flirting outrageously in public while nobody notices. She's familiar yet exciting, a combination enticing every cell in his body, making him feel like he's falling into a part of his life he now welcomes rather than dreads.

"Next Saturday night work for you?"

His pulse takes off before the rest of him can catch up.

"Next Saturday it is," he manages, trying to hold on to at least some sense of composure. "Shall I bring some wine, or would you prefer flat beer?"

She chuckles before tossing him a glance he'd like to bottle.

"A good red would be lovely. A pinot or a cab, maybe?"

"I have a favorite zinfandel," he returns, waving to Abby when he notices her trying to locate him in the stands. The girl grins when she spots him and starts to make her way in his direction.

"If you bring zin, I'll make a chocolate dessert," she states, casting a glance down to his lap. "Just no fumbling. And watch that tight end of yours."

He laughs just as his daughter and her best friend begin bounding their way up the bleachers, certain she's going to ask him for money for refreshments. He pulls out his wallet and retrieves a ten dollar bill before looking over at Regina with a sly grin.

"I'll do my best. But you can't blame me if I get carried away and attempt a pass. Especially when you call my almost fifty-two year old ass _tight_."

Her resulting laugh makes him warm all over.

"Game on, Locksley," she hums before standing to applaud as the band takes the field, a proud mother if ever he's seen one. He grins as he hands the money to Abby, taking the time to introduce her to Regina before she and her friend Ella wave a hasty good-bye and dash towards the concession stand.

Shit, she's beautiful, and classy, intelligent-is there anything wrong with this woman with whom he's now sharing a bleacher? Regina tugs the rebellious silver streak back into submission before reclaiming her seat beside him, and he chuckles, thinking that perhaps these middle-aged years might usher in a time of new beginnings and plot twists rather than concluding chapters. God knows he's ready for someone to shake things up, to add her own spice and challenge into what has become an all too predictable existence, and the brunette to his right would appear to have just the recipe he's been craving.

Game on, indeed, Mayor Mills.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Prompt: It's cold and OQ share a blanket**_

* * *

"Madame Mayor."

She looks up to see him, Mr. Sexy-as-hell silver fox, grinning down at her while holding two cups of what looks to be concession stand hot chocolate. They'd exchanged texts during the week, texts that have made her feel lighter than she has in years, texts she's kept to herself, hidden away like a secret treasure she's afraid might disappear into thin air.

"Mr. Locksley," she returns, sliding over a bit even though there's plenty of room for him to sit beside her on the bleacher. He takes her up on her offer and sits down, warming her left side instantly as he extends the steaming cup towards her. She smiles as she reaches out from underneath her stadium blanket, allowing her fingers to brush against his as she takes the cup from his hand.

"You looked cold," he muses as the football team wraps up their warm-ups on the field.

"I'm always cold," she says with a shrug. "Henry sometimes accuses me of having no heart-says that's the only way my circulation could be this bad."

Robin chuckles, unleashing those dimples she'd like to nibble like popcorn.

"I'm sure your heart is of top-notch quality," he states. "After all, you did invite this pathetic, besotted single dad over to your place for dinner tomorrow night."

Besotted? With her? Her insides tickle at his pronouncement. God, when was the last time anyone had even been remotely interested, much less besotted?

"My motives are purely selfish," she states, wishing he'd put his arm around her, silently chiding herself for being this desperate for a man's touch. "I figure if you're around, I won't have to do the dishes afterwards."

"So I'm manual labor," he states with a nod. "I guess I can accept that if I'm getting a free home cooked meal."

"One that will knock your socks off," she boasts, quirking her brow in his direction.

"Feel free to knock other parts of my clothing off, as well," he retorts, making her grin like a cat inspecting fresh cream. The thought of him in his skivvies leaves her mouth too dry for comfort.

"Maybe I'll make you clean the kitchen in the nude," she murmurs, careful not to let the people sitting nearby overhear. "Dinner and a show."

His face turns bright red, making him all the more appealing.

"Remind me to work on my exotic dancing skills before I come over," he says, sliding just a bit closer than he'd been before. "It's been a while since anyone's been interested in seeing me in my birthday suit."

She inhales chilled air, allowing it to cool cheeks that are now over-heated.

"If you're good, I might just tip you," she hums, pressing her lips together to keep from grinning as he crosses his legs. She loves seeing just how worked up he gets over her, how the smallest gesture or teasing remark can give the poor man a nearly instant hard-on. "After all, I did just recently have a birthday."

"Birthday suit for the birthday girl, is it?" he grins. "With an incentive like that, I might just strip and dance for you here. Although my kids would most assuredly disown me for the rest of their lives if I pulled a stunt like that."

She chuckles, enjoying the tingling in her nether regions she's been lacking for longer than she cares to remember.

"I'd have to have you arrested, you know," she says, drawing the cup of cocoa towards her lips. "For indecent exposure."

"You won't know whether my exposure is indecent or not until you inspect me for yourself," he hums, making her warm in all the wrong places. "And if there are going to be handcuffs involved..."

She swallows hard, feeling drops of sweat actually form beneath her breasts.

"Down, boy," she breathes, earning herself a flash of dimples and a few inches of extra space. The first she welcomes. The second, not so much.

Archie, the school's guidance counsellor, waves as he walks past them, and she grimaces, fully aware that people have been talking about the fact that she sat with the new guy at last week's game. Mary Margaret in particular has been driving her bonkers all week with questions and words of encouragement, and the fact that she and Robin are sitting together again will only add fuel to her younger cousin's fire.

Shit. Mary Margaret has spotted them and is grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

Regina ignores the inevitable text that buzzes in her pocket.

"Sorry if the quality's a bit shoddy," Robin states, pulling her out of her reverie and indicating their cups. "Not sure exactly how good the band booster hot chocolate is."

She dares as sip, nearly scalding her tongue in the process.

"It's hot," she says, setting the cup on the empty space to her right, hoping the bleacher will cool it off enough to actually drink.

He takes a cautious sip for himself, wincing as he puts his cup down as well.

"I think I may have singed off a few taste buds," he muses, settling in more comfortably beside her. God, he smells good-Polo, she thinks, and she leans in a bit closer to get another whiff, her insides melting at his understated masculinity. She wants him closer-as close as she can get him in public, so she unwraps herself from her blanket and extends one end in his direction, Mary Margaret and the rest of Storybrooke's busybodies be damned.

"Would you care to share?" she questions, feeling like a teenager as her pulse trips over itself. He stares right at her, giving her a soft smile that slides all over her like warm butter.

"I'd love to share," he says, scooting over until their hips are touching.

"You're not remotely cold," she observes as a warm hand slides around her back to pull her even closer.

"You can just say I'm hot," he quips. "I promise I won't mind."

She shakes her head and grins as the band begins to tune, ignoring Mary Margaret's enthusiastic thumbs up aimed right at them.

"Where's Abby?" she asks, scanning the area near the cheerleaders where Robin's ten year old daughter had hung out last week.

"With her friends Ella and Ripley," he replies, pointing towards the far left corner of the bleachers. "They're eating nachos and discussing boys, I imagine."

Abby's hair is in a high ponytail, a blue and white bow expertly clipped into her brown hair.

"Do you do her hair, or does she?" Regina asks.

"It depends on the day," he shrugs. "I've become quite adept at braids and ponytails over the past four years, but she's now at an age where she wants to do more things for herself." He pauses, looking towards his daughter with unmistakable adoration. "I'm not sure whether I should be thrilled or despondent."

She glances towards the band, spotting Henry laughing with Violet, a sight she's not certain how to take.

"It's hard," she states. "Letting them grow up."

"That it is," Robin agrees. Abby stands up and waves at Roland, bringing a smile to Robin's face as her big brother waves back. "We almost didn't have her, you know," Robin continues, his tone low and private. "She's a bit of a miracle."

"Rough pregnancy?" she asks. He sighs, his breath visible in the cool, autumn air.

"Rough time getting pregnant," he says, looking back at her. "We had fertility issues after Roland's birth. He was a preemie-healthy, thank God, but his delivery was really hard on Marian. So for many years we were a happy family of three."

He pauses, his gaze fixed on his ten-year-old daughter.

"But things changed?" Regina asks, smarting at the familiar pang of infertility.

"Right after Marian's thirty-eighth birthday," he returns. "She decided that she wanted another child, and that if we were going to have one, we'd better not wait much longer." He pauses, rubbing his thumb along the side of her arm. "After a lot of research and discussion, we opted to try ivf. It took three tries, and we nearly gave up, but we finally got pregnant with Abby." He clears his throat, the weight of his emotions enticing her even closer. "She was worth it, you know. Every failed attempt, every agonizing discussion, every judgmental jackass's comments on how we should just be happy with the child we already had…"

She reaches over to him from under the blanket and squeezes his thigh.

"She's beautiful," Regina says, earning herself a gentle squeeze in return.

"I think so," Robin agrees. "Not that I'm biased or anything." He looks at her quizzically, breathing in as if he's trying to work up the courage to ask her something. "You said last week that you adopted your son."

Just then the announcer states that it's time for the National Anthem, so they stand, the blanket falling to the bleachers as the band begins to play. They applaud when it's over, wrapping back up in their blue and white cocoon as they take their seat and the players take the field for the coin toss.

"I know what it's like to want a baby and not be able to conceive one," she begins, sparing him the embarrassment of having to ask. "After reviewing all of my options as a single woman, I decided to adopt."

He nods, reaching for her hand under the privacy of the blanket. She lets him take it within his.

"Great choice," he states, gazing over to the band who is now playing the school fight song. "Henry seems to be a fine young man."

"He is," she says, watching her son lean back as he proudly plays his trumpet. "He's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Did it take a long time?" Robin asks. "Adopting him, I mean."

"Nearly three years," she replies, welcoming the warmth creeping up her spine as his thumb caresses her knuckles. "But like you said, he was worth it. Every dashed hope, every referral gone wrong, every snide remark from my mother asking why I just didn't get married already and have a baby the way God intended..."

He flips a curious brow her way.

"She didn't know you were infertile?"

Regina laughs through her nose.

"I never told her," she answers. "It would have just been one more disappointment on a list of many, so I decided, why bother?"

"As if infertility is something to be ashamed of," he scoffs, shaking his head. "As if it makes someone less of a person."

"I know," she breathes, loving the feel of just enough muscle beneath his jacket as he sits up a bit straighter. "Trust me." He smiles and squeezes her hand, and they sit in a comfortable silence as she leans into him, breathing in the mixed scents of fall, football and Polo, closing her eyes just a moment to take it all in.

"I can't regret it, you know," she says. "My infertility. Because without that diagnosis, I might never have adopted Henry, and Henry's…"

She pauses as her son stands and plays "Charge" on his trumpet.

"He's everything, isn't he?" he breathes, looking from Henry back to her, those blue eyes of his a bit misty, prompting a piece of her heart to melt into him. "My children are to me, as well, you know."

"Yes," she answers, linking her fingers within his. "I can tell."

He nods and clears his throat.

"As much as I love them, is it wrong that I now find myself wanting more?" he asks, his tone fractured. "More than just being a dad, I mean? That I'd like to possibly find a companion to enjoy my children with, someone who'll actually laugh at my corny jokes and might possibly want to see me in my birthday suit from time to time, despite the mileage its seen?"

She squeezes his hand and takes a deep breath.

"I hope not," she confesses. "Because I find myself craving the same thing, for the first time in a long time."

A noisemaker sounds from behind them, and they wince together, laughing at their shared response as their team forces the fourth down and takes possession of the ball.

"I'm glad I met you, Regina Mills," he says, his thumb doing things to her palm that make her want to crawl into his lap and kiss him senseless. "And I'm really looking forward to dinner tomorrow night."

"So am I," she says, purposefully ignoring Mary Margaret as she tosses them an exaggerated wink from over her shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: Robin spills a drink on Regina.**

* * *

Her lasagna is to die for.

Robin leans forward, his stomach delightfully stuffed as he takes another sip of zinfandel, all too mindful of liquid brown eyes gazing back at him from just across her kitchen island. They'd opted for tall benches and a more informal location for their first dinner date, and he stretches his spine, cursing the fact that stools without backs are something he can only enjoy on a limited basis these days.

"Back bothering you?" Regina questions, reaching out for the wine and topping off both of their glasses. They're a little more full than when he'd poured earlier, not that he minds, but he takes a sip anyway, just to ensure he doesn't spill it all over himself in front of her.

"A little," he confesses, grinning at the eyebrow quirk she sends in his direction. "Alright. More than a little."

"Then why don't we move to the couch?" she asks, tossing him a come hither look that steals all the moisture from his mouth. "Dessert can wait."

His groin moves to full alert.

"I've always preferred dessert on the couch," he states, wincing at popping bones as he hoists himself down from the tall stool.

"God, you're a flirt," she reprimands half-heartedly.

"I thought that's why you invited me over tonight," he returns. "Because you were blown away by my wit, charm and flirting skills."

She actually snorts at this, and he chuckles, heating up ten degrees when she extends her hand towards him, sliding her fingers through his own to guide them out of the kitchen and into her living room. She leans down to turn on a lamp as they pause in front of her large sofa, and they take a moment to look at each other, to appreciate the moment and wonder what comes next. Shit, he knows what he wants to happen. He wants to kiss her, needs to kiss her, wants to sample those full lips seasoned with Italian spices and red wine, wants to pull her body into his and revel at the feel of this remarkable and unexpected woman in his arms. He wonders if he should make a move, if it's time or still too early, but she leans back just a fraction, so he decides to wait, even though his balls feel like she's put them in a vice as she licks her lips and tucks that blasted streak of silver behind her ear. He's not sure why he finds that so sexy, but Christ-he does.

"I actually invited you over because you have a nice ass," she states matter-of-factly, just as he takes a sip of his wine. He chokes on it and coughs, spewing drops of zinfandel out his nose and onto her blouse.

"Christ, I'm sorry," he manages, trying to tamp down his coughing reflex as he grabs a handkerchief out of his pocket and reaches out to dab the dark splotches now dotted across burgundy fabric. He freezes as the wine trail ventures across her breasts, withdrawing his hand and smiling apologetically.

"Smooth," she mutters, looking down at her chest before staring back at him. "If this is your idea on how to get to second base, I think you need a new play book."

He laughs then, he can't help it, and she joins him, taking his wine glass and setting both down on the coffee table as she wipes the corner of her eyes.

"I am sorry," he reiterates as they both sit down. "Truly. I'll buy you a new blouse if you can't get the stain out of this one."

"I'll remember you said that," she quips, accepting the offered handkerchief and wiping her blouse with it. "And will buy myself a more expensive blouse."

He snort laughs at this, thankful there's no wine in his mouth this time.

"You know," he begins. "I'm beginning to think you made me laugh on purpose, just so you could get a new wardrobe out it."

She bites her lower lip and grins.

"Will it work?" she questions, leaning in just a little closer. Her perfume nearly knocks him over, and his mouth is dry again as the urge to kiss her pounds across nerves and muscle.

"That depends," he murmurs, moving in closer himself. They're nearly nose to nose now, and she doesn't back away but lays a hand flat on his chest before her fingers start to stroke through fabric. Shit. Being close to her like this is torture of the sweetest kind imaginable.

"On?"

Her husky whisper nearly makes him come in his khakis.

"On whether or not I can get you out of this one," he returns, silencing her throaty chuckle as his lips descend on hers.


End file.
